Midway into my seventh week of running, I'd had glimpses into how terrific this could all be--the energetic burst of the first steps, the light wind of the first hundred yards, the warming glow of the yards that follow. But whenever I attempted any distance over a half mile, I'd think, This is really hard. The mind remembers, "This is really hard" and does everything it can to avoid it in the future by turning the word hard into impossible.

When attempting something impossible, you have to marshal your forces—all of them. I muster determination, focus, and what little muscle I have as I head out, but there is one more thing I sometimes bring with me. Call it a secret weapon. As I was struggling along one day, I started muttering to myself and accidentally discovered the utility of the false narrative. Some people laugh so as not to cry. I dream so as not to collapse.

... "Whatever you do, don't stop running," Scorsese barks through the megaphone. He ejects his cinematographer from the chair, pushes his thick-rimmed glasses atop his forehead, lowers his face to the camera's padded eyepiece, and screams "Action!" I take off down the smoke-stained alley with Matt Damon and Russell Crowe sprinting at my heels, their guns blazing. A series of detonators fire as I blitz through—pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. I smash through a set of Chinatown pushcarts rigged to burst apart and kick into full speed as a formation of police choppers trace a tight, clockwise arc and drop in behind me. Crowe skids through the upturned pushcarts and drops to his knees with exhaustion. Damon lowers his head and digs past him, his arms whipping in a blur at his sides. We flash around a corner and open up to a blistering speed. Without slowing, Damon lifts his gun and fires again ...

"Shouldn't be joggin' on a day as nice as this," my old neighbor shouts. He's in the front yard working on the engine of a baby blue Studebaker. "You oughta be drinking a beer!" I ask him if I look like I need one. He says I do, and he's probably right. His driveway is a little over a half mile from mine. Passing it means I'm attempting to run over a mile; an idea that probably darkens my face with the kind of determination that makes you look like you need a drink. I smile and wave, and my neighbor wipes his greasy hands on a rag and shakes his head like I'm a crazy man. The road lifts in a slow S-turn, then opens into a long straightaway. I'm already tired and I'm still running away from the house.

... "Don't stop running whatever you do," the surgeon barks over the radio. "Have the patient ready, Doc! Projected ETA at minus two minutes." I turn the mike down under my chin and yell to the pilot over the pocketa-pocketa chop of the blades overhead, "No helipad—just get this bird in tight and drop it where you can!" The small cooler jumps in my lap with our sudden descent. I wrap my arms around it and exchange a look with the other members of the organ-transport team. We never know what's in the cooler. We only know where it has to go and what will happen if it doesn't get there fast. The doors fly open and we duck out and hit the ground running. Vaulting the curb, I lead the stampede down the middle of the street. Police at each intersection hold back a wall of cars and roll their arms in circles to signal us through. Our boots thunder against the road in unison as we round the corner and charge up the long hill leading to the hospital. The Trauma Center doors burst open and hospital staff step back and hold them wide ...

The one-mile mark is less than 50 yards ahead, but it seems like so much farther. My knees lift and my feet swing in a way that seems artificial for how difficult it is—as if running was the last thing the body was designed to do. For the way I'm breathing, I could be in a knife fight—there is no rhythm, only jerky pulls and pushes of air, some like choking, some longer than they should be. My toe catches the road with a lethargic stride. I call myself a few names and pick it up—although, actually, the only thing I pick up are my shoulders. When you run like a potato, lifting your shoulders feels like a second wind. An extremely short second wind. And I can't vouch for how it looks. I hit one mile and hunch over my knees. Over the hill, there is the sound of an approaching car. For some reason, I think the person behind the wheel will care whether I'm running or bent over, panting. I straighten up and start home.

... "Don't stop running!" Donnie sprints at my side. The stadium is a half mile away, but the sound of cheering is nearly deafening. "You'd think they could drop off the lead singer a little closer to the venue," says Donnie. "What city is this?" I shout. "Does it matter, Benny?" "As long as there's tequila and blue M&M's backstage—no, it doesn't matter." We fly through the rows of parked cars at a full clip under the wail of Jo-Jo's guitar and the pocketa-pow of Ziggy's drums. "Jo-Jo and Ziggy will hold the crowd," I yell. Donnie says no. "They love the band but they come to hear the Voice," he says, pointing at me, tossing a wireless mike. I snatch it from the air and we break into a full clip for the backstage doors as a small mob of screaming fans cuts in behind us ...

A huge dog jumps off his porch and strains against a tiny leash, barking and snapping as I pass. His owner, a woman appearing half the dog's weight, shouts at him to be quiet. The dog doesn't care what the woman says. He snaps at me every time I pass, and I startle every time. Then I imagine what I'd have to do to survive if he ever broke free. At the moment, I'm so tired I don't think I could fight him off. Can you still call it running when it's slower than a brisk walk? Probably not. I can see my driveway in the distance.

... "Parent is giving Armstrong a real run for his money." "This is unbelievable!" "I don't think Parent believes it." "Armstrong didn't see this coming." "No one saw this coming, Bob!" "Quick program note—NBC will not break away from the marathon until this thing is decided." "They're rounding the last corner now, heading into the final stretch." "Parent seems to be closing the gap!" "Armstrong is looking over his shoulder in disbelief—he's losing ground!" "They're neck and neck with the finish under a hundred yards away." ...

I come to a dead stop in front of the driveway and drop down again to hold my knees. Made it. The mind is a beautiful thing. The mind on running is beautiful but also delirious. Thank heaven. If you haven't already done so, do yourself the great favor of reading James Thurber's Secret Life of Walter Mitty. At only five and a half pages, it's one of the best short stories ever written. If enough of you read it, his ghost may forgive me for echoing it here. Then once you've finished, do yourself an even bigger favor and go out for a quick run. The road is long, and there are many stories to tell.